Perhaps I am too orderly even in my writing life. I’m behind again on sticking the blog printouts into my journal, and it hinders me in handwriting ideas into that journal because I think that everything should be in strict date order. Maybe I shouldn’t give a damn about the date order. Let posterity sort that out when it cannibalises my art in years to come. I do have another notebook, a tiny one, that I scribble into on occasions. That’s where the other side of me kicks in, though, because I’m so disorganised that I forget to carry it around with me. And this morning I’ve come downstairs without putting my wristwatch on.
At least I slept. My acupuncturist asked me on Tuesday if I dreamed vividly. Only sometimes, I said. I did have a vivid dream last night but I’ve forgotten it already. Some vivid dreams stay with me for long enough for me to write them down. Not this one. Some of them do make me believe that I do sleep travel, that those dreams are actually real, and that they just take place in a different world that I only inhabit in my sleep. The problem sometimes is that if I analyse anything too deeply it can feel like total nonsense to me, but that if I use them for my art instead, they carry on feeling and being real, and don’t feel like nonsense at all.
It’s deeply disturbing that we writers try to make a living out of making up stories while politicians who should be making their living only from acting in the interests of this country in real life make up stories (call that lie) to stay in power and succeed and make themselves rich when 99% of their people are suffering. Just as disturbing is the fact that many of those suffering people actually believe the lies these politicians tell, that the institution which is supposed to uphold truth, Parliament, expressly has a regulation which prohibits those who lie being accused of lying. I’ve been here before, talking about this, but this morning this counterintuitive contrast is once again too crass to ignore. Meanwhile Ukraine burns while the West still buys oil from Russia.
At least the sun is shining. It’s temperate outside. It is still. Not even a breeze. That reminds me of Ein Gleiches by Goethe – and again I come across a dreadful translation. It’s the second poem of Wandrers Nachtlied (which should really be translated as Traveller’s Lullaby), and Ein Gleiches as One The Same. If I remember, I’ll try to translate (well, gjendikt) it over the weekend. It’s a fantastic poem, and I probably love it as much as Hälfte des Lebens. I used to know it off by heart. It’s only eight short lines long.
Maybe I should have made more of an effort to stay in academia. It’s far removed from the real world, and would have allowed me eternally to do nothing but play with words.
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 61